the wishes that we bury

our lives are but recurrences of our memories
and our memories are the future of thoughts
and events and touches that we refuse to let go.
that we refuse to bury under a heap of dirt.
And even if we do, we plant a sapling.

We say we know it's not gonna live..
but we water it every day..
and we are wary of the birds that pluck at it.
We are wary of strangers that might trample it...

And when on a sunny morning, a yellow flower blooms
we relive the pain of what was buried.

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De ja vu'

Those days, hot and sultry as young love, ended with tea and smoke. I never smoked, though...or did I not? Smoke like love is inductive. When all around you, people smoke and drink and love... A yearning grows in you. Which satiates itself in passive inhalation. Much like falling in love with characters from folds of a dusty classic. Forgotten and imaginary, just like me. In the commotion of a roadside stall, filled with smoke layered conversations that oozed out of us, like the departing sunlight filtered through a mess of cracked wall and cobwebs, I had seen you. I had seen you through a gap within the smoke. The snakes and dragons of smoke curled around you and you looked somewhere far. It is as if nothing touched you. That mad unsettled look in your eyes had settled in some other world. You felt the weight of my gaze. I had always wondered how gaze feels like a touch. Like a deep slumber that has touched your eyes and you cannot see. And you looked at me...

Two boats in a blue stormy river

Hey can we just put ourselves aside.. and think like two runaway boats capsized in churning waters of a blue stormy river? Can we remember how we felt drowning and saving ourselves instead of each other in the stormy churning waters? Imagine the rocks that we hit and the holes that were made.. the scars that would remain of that night in the blue storm? We would return home some unknown shore Laying side by side battered and lopsided. Masters and people would think we were runaway boats, While we would know how shamelessly we shamed ourselves in the blue churning river.

The Dirtier skin

"no ship will ever take you away from yourself"---Constantine Cavafy That was long ago. Very long ago. It was that particular time of year when the shadows dance around your face as the moonlight seeps through broken clouds. We lay close, your hands trying to sketch the reality into my ears----the existence of a career and success, of a circle of friends and family, of fame and of you. Your soothing words were covering my eyes like a lullaby, I was slipping but slumber wasn’t heavy on my eyes. I heard your voice. I saw the clouds. There was something I was waiting for. I didn’t know. Maybe a kiss. You kissed me tight. I was still waiting. I looked at the sky. The place where the moon supposedly hid herself was dimly bright beneath the clouds. I heard you say something… "your skins dirty from all that walking. Go have a bath and see you at work tomorrow”. You left. I lay there numb , playing with my hair …minutes lapsed …I don’t know when but I slipped into a...

THAT WHICH GOES UNSAID...

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